On the balcony of his hotel room, some 50 odd floors above the ground, Captain Cook stood, a forlorn figure, a defeated man. On adjoining balconies, either side, another crew member, and yet another. It seemed they had been placed together in cells high up in the tower, too high to jump out and escape. “My cell is large enough for all of us, and yet I am alone.” One of the crewmen commented.
“Mine is not a cell, but rather a Queen’s chamber.” Another added.
“The doors are not locked and there are no guards,” yet another said, “it is as though they want us to escape.”
“So they can shoot us down like dogs.” One suggested. The Captain was trying to figure it out, and yet every answer has its own question too. None of it made any sense. Luxurious cells without locks or guards, fine food and beverage, apparent freedom to come and go as they pleased; even a stairwell with no stairs that appeared to not move at all and yet transported them from the bottom of the tower to the very top, far above the ground. They were prisoners and yet were not being treated as such, certainly not by such standards as prisoners back in his country would be treated. He had no answers to give his men; he felt helpless. And when finally Admiral Cecil and The Enforcer came for them, still they carried no weapons, took them outside where the large carriage which carried them along at great speed with no horses drawing it, and had delivered them to their cells the night before, took them again back to the beach on which they had landed.
There a large crowd gathered and the Captain and his men were invited to strip down and join in a traditional memorial service for those who have died in the ocean; for those who had perished on board his ship. They joined a band of lifesavers on surf skis, paddling out beyond the breakers, where they formed a great circle, threw wreaths into the centre, and poised in silence, to reflect, to remember, to honour those who died. Immediately the circle broke, the strangest sound came from the beach, a peculiar sound with animal noises and tapping sticks, powerful chanting; and now they could see dancers, their bodies painted, wearing traditional native loincloths, and stamping fiercely in the sand. If all of this was in honour of the victims of yesterday’s encounter, it made no sense. Not one of their own people had been killed, or even injured, why would they honour the dead of the enemy?
Next stop for the horseless carriage was the S.C.G (Sydney Cricket Ground) where Goodsy, coach of the Sydney Swans football team, was putting his squad through their paces. “I brought you a present, Goodsy”, Cecil announced, but Goodsy had heard it all before. ‘They’re like a bunch of school kids bringing an apple for the teacher.’
“The season’s about to kick off and I’ve got to get this rabble into shape and you come around annoying me with some stupid fuckin’…” Goodsy didn’t get a chance to finish his abuse as he turned to face his tormentor and found himself face to midriff with a man-mountain. “What the fuck is that?” Is all he could say.
“It’s Sandy, Big Sandy.” Cecil offered.
“I can see what it is, but where did you find it? And can it play football? Can it ruck?” Goodsy didn’t wait for an answer, just strained his neck and looked up. “Do you recon you can do what those big fellas out there are doing?” pointing towards his big men practicing their ruck drill.
“Is the Pope Argentinian?” is all the reply Sandy gave.
“Fucked if I know, but I do know the medicine man is black. Take him down the change rooms, kit him out and get him on the oval; let’s see what stuff this big fella’s made of.” Two small, fat, balding trainers, about belly high to Big Sandy led him off muttering something about, “Where the hell are we going to find a pair of size 14 footy boots?”
Cecil left contented. He had now found homes for half the Captain’s men, without even trying. He was feeling a lot more confident about fronting up to the Council of Elders.